Espièglerie
by Pariaritzia
Summary: "Monseigneur," she began solemnly, "I know what it is that we must do now." His Grace remained admirably grave. "Do you, infant?" he remarked. "How very discouraging." A These Old Shades fic.


**The best Heyer I have read thus far…which means, of course, that it is the most difficult to write. I have done my best, but please don't expect too much.**

**Bonne lecture.**

_Mais __oui_, Léonie did not have a dragon with her to explain the niceties of a wedding night in terms delicate, mysterious, and utterly unhelpful. Faith, there was a dragon, but one who was both beast and knight, one arrayed in gold and emeralds when slaying the true villain of the tale.

The child did, however, declare full knowledge, much to her dragon's amusement.

"Monseigneur," she began solemnly, when they were alone in their rooms in the Rising Sun, with him in an armchair before the fire and her by his feet, "I know what it is that we must do now."

His Grace remained admirably grave.

"Do you, infant?" he remarked. "How very discouraging."

Léonie looked puzzled. "Discouraging? Monseigneur, I thought you would be pleased! Besides"—she peeped up at him through her lashes and leaned against his knee—"you did once take me to the Maison Chourval."

He frowned. "I thought I had told you to forget that place, _ma __fille_."

"Oh yes, you did! But sometimes I forget to forget."

He gave her a sharp look, met by the impish dimple. His lips twitched.

"You are decidedly _gamine_, infant."

"I cannot help it, Monseigneur. I am so very happy now! My father is dead—"

"Yes, you have already shown undue excitement in that quarter," he interrupted.

"—and I am well-born, and have a family—"

"Who will likely agonize uselessly over your absence until we return," he complained.

"—and we are married!" she finished gleefully. "So you see, Monseigneur, why I am so—so _espiègle_?"

He smiled at her. "Yes, _ma belle_. But Léonie, there is something I must tell you. When we are alone like this I would like you to use my name."

Léonie was astonished. "Your name, Monseigneur?"

The Duke smiled slightly. "Yes. It may surprise you to learn this, but I have a name."

"_Bien_!" She blushed prettily. "Only—you could never be anything for me but Monseigneur. But if it would please you, then I shall try," she finished simply.

"Thank you."

For a moment she was silent, and then:

"But Mon—Jus—" She stopped, looking displeased. "Bah! I cannot say it!"

"Cannot or will not?" he asked dryly.

"I do not know! I think I can say it if I look at the fire—Justin. _Voilà_! But not if I am addressing you, not yet. But what was I saying—oh yes! Why is it discouraging, that I know what it is that we must do?"

He pinched her chin and tilted it up so she met his gaze.

"I wonder," he said, in that languid tone that she knew meant disaster for some poor mortal, "how you could know."

Léonie flushed once more, and looked away from the hard eyes.

"I am sorry, Monseigneur," she said in a small voice. "Jean's tavern was not—not a nice place."

Avon let go of her chin. She leaned her head against his knee and turned to the fire, and for a moment he watched the play of the fire's glow over her coppery curls.

"It is a shame," he said finally, softly, "that Saint-Vire is already dead. I may be forced to revive him and this time kill him myself."

Léonie's eyes were wide. "You can do this, Monseigneur? Revive him?" She jumped to her feet and gave a little skip. "_Tiens_! But this is wonderful! If you do this I can help you to kill him!" She thrust an imaginary foil. "_Comme__ ça_!"

"Calm yourself, infant," said his Grace, suppressing a laugh. "I am incapable of such a rebirth, nor would I be interested. This world need not suffer Saint-Vire's presence for one instant longer than it already has."

Léonie looked disappointed, but she retook her seat at his feet. He bent, however, and held his arms out to her.

"Come, _ma __mie_," he said gently.

She flew into his arms and settled in his lap.

"_Voyons_," she said happily, "here, I am very _à __l'aise_."

Avon smiled. "I am glad to hear it, little one." He touched the curve of her jaw, traced a little under it. "Your happiness suits you, Léonie. I shall strive to see that you are suited so for the rest of your days."

She put her small hands on either side of his face. "Monseigneur, you will not have to _strive_. I will be always happy, if I am with you."

She kissed him, and for a minute or two neither spoke.

"Léonie," Avon said finally.

Her eyes opened. "_Oui_?"

For the first time since she had met him he seemed uncertain.

"I am not young," he said at last. "I will understand if you do not wish for this part of our marriage."

Léonie blinked at him, astonished. "Monseigneur! Why should I not?"

"My age—"

"Means only that it will be good, _n'est-ce pas_?" she interrupted, flashing the roguish dimple again. "You have had a lot of practice, I think!"

His Grace frowned, but his eyes were laughing. "You should not say such things, infant, it is not—"

She did not wait to learn what it was not. Nor could he remember, for she kissed him again.

"Justin," she murmured, then pulled away and beamed. "_Tiens_! I said it!"

He smiled. "So you did."

"Justin," she said again, more slowly. "I like it almost as much as 'Monseigneur.' Justin."

She kissed him a third time, and this time the conversation did not resume.

.^.

"Well, _ma belle_?" he asked softly, holding her close. "What think you?"

She smiled and curled into him, her head upon his shoulder.

"I like it very much, Monseigneur," she said happily. "I think I would like it all the time!"

The Duke's lips twitched. "You forget my advanced years, _ma __mie_."

"_Bien_…perhaps only half the time," amended the Duchess of Avon, the dimple peeping at him.


End file.
